Imani turned. "Good evening, Mr. Hale." Preston looked from her face to the party invitation she had placed on the small table beside her. "Who let you up here? Did you take a wrong turn from the service elevator?"
"I was invited," she answered. Preston shook his head. "By whom? The caterer?" Sienna lifted her phone, sensing another moment likely to attract views. A few executives nearby glanced over, then looked away with the polished indifference people develop when an uncomfortable scene involves someone above their pay grade.
Julian stepped closer. "Mr. Hale, perhaps we should—" Preston interrupted without waiting for the sentence.
"And who are you? Her driver?" Julian's jaw tightened, but his voice remained level. "I'm her chief of staff."
The answer should have slowed Preston down. It was a title that suggested an organization behind the woman in the cream blouse, and an organization with the resources to employ a professional chief of staff was not usually seeking access to a party for free food. But Preston had already built a story in his head. If he questioned it now, he would have to acknowledge the possibility that he had been wrong before witnesses, and pride made that more difficult than continuing.
"Chief of staff," he repeated, smiling as though the phrase were the punch line. "That's impressive. Does she have a department, too?"
Sienna laughed. Imani placed a hand lightly on Julian's sleeve. "It's fine," she said. "Please don't turn this into something it doesn't need to be."
The waiter returned with a tray of drinks. As he passed, Sienna lifted a glass from the edge of the tray, moved a little too close to Imani, and tipped it in her direction. Pale sparkling wine splashed across the sleeve of Imani's jacket and dripped onto the stone terrace. The motion was small, but deliberate enough that the nearest waiter stopped moving.
"Oops," Sienna said, raising her empty hand. "My hand slipped." A laugh came from two people behind Preston, uncertain at first and then louder when he joined in. Imani looked at the wet sleeve, took a napkin from the table, and pressed it gently against the fabric.
Julian moved toward Sienna, furious in a way Imani had seen only a handful of times. "That's enough," he said. Preston turned on him. "Who appointed you party security?" The waiter asked Imani whether she wanted a clean towel, and she thanked him before anybody else could answer for her.
The young waiter stood between the people who had caused the scene and the person who had been made its target. He was visibly uncomfortable, holding out the towel with both hands. Imani accepted it, then looked toward his supervisor, who had been watching from the doorway. "He did his job," she said quietly. "Please don't make him pay for somebody else's mistake."
She could see the supervisor relax. Julian had heard the sentence, too, and it changed how he held his anger. The problem was not just an executive being cruel to a wealthy woman who could defend herself; it was an entire room learning whether the easiest thing to do was laugh, look away, or help. Imani made a note of the waiter later, along with the fact that he had offered a towel without waiting for anyone's permission.